


lonely to drink alone

by icanseeyoudancing



Category: Roswell New Mexico (TV 2019)
Genre: Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/F, Love/Hate, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-21
Updated: 2019-05-21
Packaged: 2020-03-09 04:42:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18909784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/icanseeyoudancing/pseuds/icanseeyoudancing
Summary: in which Maria makes a better drinking buddy than Isabel thought. maybe more.





	lonely to drink alone

She hates gardening. She hates it because if she tells people she likes it, they assume she’s the kind of person who spends her afternoon making lemonade from scratch for demon spawn by the name of toddlers, that she watches  _ The Martha Stewart Show  _ for fun, that she has a copy of  _ Good Housekeeping  _ in her bathroom. 

  
  


But mostly, she likes how she feels like she’s buried pieces of herself underneath the ground, she likes how it makes her  _ forget.  _ She likes sweating under the New Mexico sun until she’s cursing under her breath and not thinking about Max, and Noah, and all the people she lost in the span of one very awful day. And the person she never had in the first place. 

  
  


Anyways, it makes her feel like she’s just another person again - another person, with a nice husband, and a nice, Pinterest-worthy house, and a nice kitchen with work to bury herself in, cooking and cleaning and dancing around her kitchen. Not the kind of person that goes to a bar six days a week and flirts with Maria DeLuca because she just wants to get her mad, wants to toss her out, she wants to see her utterly pissed and red-faced, she wants her to  _ hate  _ her again. She doesn’t want to let go of the past - she wants to set the corpse of her grudges on fire. She wants to burn.

  
  


It’s not the orderly kind of gardening, either - half of her lawn has been dug up, so many flowers that you can’t even walk on them without trampling a few. Maybe an hour later, she’s tearing weeds away from her tulips and looking certifiably insane to the rest of the neighborhood, and Maria walks up.

  
  


She looks awful - she looks like she went insane. Her hair, wavy and chopped to her chin, is tangled, her sweatshirt is too big for her body, she’s wearing a pair of cotton shorts and no makeup, but she looks beautiful. Isabel blames it on the fact that she hasn’t seen people in almost three days. She doesn’t even remember what they look like.

  
  


Maria plops down on her porch, taking a flask out of her pocket, even though it’s barely noon. She takes a swig and throws it across the grass, where it rolls to a stop at Isabel’s feet. “So, being widowed really sent you into malfunctioning Stepford wife mode, didn’t it?”

  
  


Isabel practically stabs the ground, ignoring the flask. “I think we’re forgetting that my  _ brother  _ died. And Liz’s sister still thinks I serial-murdered her. And my husband committed fourteen murders, not to mention the fact that he never even  _ loved  _ me.”

  
  


Oversharing is sharing at all when it comes to Maria DeLuca. She cuts herself off and stabs the grass harder. 

  
  


“Well, when you put it that way,” Maria says, propping herself up on her elbows. “You’re right, you’ve had the week from hell. Anything you need help with?”

  
  


“I’m not interested in being inducted into your hippie cult.” she tosses the shovel away and starts tearing out weeds with her bare hands. “Or your  _ my-boyfriend’s-an-alien  _ support group. I don’t want your pity.”

  
  


“I’m not offering it.” Instead of retrieving her flask, she takes out a cigarette and lights it. “We hated each other in high school, but that was ten years ago. I got over it. Didn’t you?” She smiles infuriatingly.

  
  


People are mowing their lawns, pushing through the syrupy heat, shirts sticking to their skin, wiping sweat from their brows. Her neighbor is clipping the grass with a nail clipper. Trees rustle. Sprinklers … sprinkle. Everyone is pushing through the weather, children playing in the streets on bicycles with streamers attached to the handles, skateboards and scooters.

  
  


Isabel pauses in her weeding to stare out at the street, reaching for the flask absentmindedly. “I killed someone in high school. And now she’s  _ back -  _ my hands, my face, that was the last thing she saw, and I … we were friends.”  _ She was too smart to love you.  _ “So, no. I didn’t get over what happened in high  school. Any of it. I can’t. You can.”

  
  


Maria doesn’t reply. She takes another drag of her cigarette and shrugs, staring up at the sky. She speaks after a long moment. “I found Racist Hank in the dumpster the other day. And I didn’t call anyone. Not for a couple hours. Because I thought he was still alive, and I was so  _ relieved,  _ even though I felt sick for feeling that way. He used to slap my ass behind the bar, and look down my shirt.” She stubs the cigarette under her boot, and for once, Isabel holds off and doesn’t say anything. “He was alive when I was  _ born.” _

  
  


“Gross.” 

  
  


“More than gross.”

  
  


What comes out of Isabel’s mouth next surprises her. “Are you really psychic?”

  
  


Maria grins a little. “What, you thought I was lying?”

  
  
  


[\\]

  
  
  


The heat doesn’t let up. Even on the day of Max’s funeral. Noah’s buried a couple rows down, a blank grave with no flowers.

  
  


She wanted to bring him a rose. A part of her did. As much as she wants to pretend that she never cared, never loved him, there are traces of him everywhere in places she can’t erase. She found a dress in her closet this morning that she never remembered buying. She doesn’t know how to forget, ironically enough. She’s going to bring him roses. Or those colorful, tacky type of grocery store flowers. She’ll do it like she’s sleepwalking, she’ll deny, deny, deny, forget, forget, forget - she hasn’t cried. That’s because it doesn’t feel like he’s dead. Because it still feels like he has a fist wrapped around her heart, squeezing whenever she even tries to forget.

 

Liz is crying. Michael’s jaw is locked, his face is emotionless, he wipes tears away with his suit sleeve. They’re holding hands, though - so tightly, their fingers are white and slipping away from each other. Alex is in the back, in a sharp suit, carrying an umbrella, studiously avoiding Maria’s eyes. 

  
  


She looks as eccentric as ever, but sort of toned down - a black dress, dangly, silvery necklaces, and a ring on each finger. She’s holding Liz’s other hand, metal biting into her palm, eyes closed. Her hair is almost dripping wet. They’ve just been  _ standing  _ here for almost thirty minutes, getting wetter and wetter and barely noticing it.

  
  


She doesn’t know how to live in her empty house without Max popping in for lunch with Deputy Cameron, with Noah just being …  _ there _ . All the empty picture frames and the ones she’s turned upside down and the ones she’s shattered. The things she can’t bear to look at anymore, because their smiles look plastic, hugs look like headlocks. Love looks like violence underneath a thin veil of murder.

  
  


She doesn’t know who to talk to. 

  
  


She steps forward, and gives Michael a sideways hug, as he tries to hold back tears, eyes squeezed shut, teeth gritted. He sighs, his breath rattles.

  
  


_ Son & Brother. Hero.  _ Underneath, in smaller font, it says,  _ find a moment worth fighting for.  _ It’s something she found in those journals he kept in high school -  _ diaries. _ Along with Liz’s name, written as  _ Liz Ortecho-Evans  _ in every style of handwriting possible. He was a little obsessed. Maybe a few days ago, she would’ve laughed, but now the thought just makes her cry. 

  
  


Maria wraps an arm around Liz’s shoulders. Her tears are so quiet that you can’t even tell she’s crying unless you look really closely. 

  
  


Liz knows the quote on the gravestone is about her - how could she not? She was the great big love of Max’s life, the one everyone deserves to have at least once. She traces it with her fingers and she shakes like she has chills. 

  
  
She knows that … that it’s selfish, and more than slightly wrong, but she just  _ wishes  _ she could have someone again. Like Michael. He’s just a shell of her brother, now, and it’s lonely to drink alone.    
  
  
[\\]

  
  


On Saturday, Maria turns up on her doorstep with a bottle of expensive-looking whiskey and two glasses. Isabel’s in her pajamas, an oversized t-shirt and no pants.    
  


 

Maria’s eyes widen. “Going  _ au naturel -  _ honestly, I always thought you’d be the monogrammed silk matching set type.”

  
  


She yawns hugely, not bothering to make sure she doesn’t flash her underwear. “I don’t even  _ want  _ to know what situation presented itself where you were thinking about me in pajamas. Oh, and alcohol.” she grabs the bottle from her and smiles hugely. “Thanks. You can go now.”   
  
  


Maria rolls her eyes, stepping over the threshold and kicking off her boots. “Evans, friends don’t let friends wallow alone.”  
  


 

“ _ Friends  _ is a strong word.”   
  


  
“Please, I unlocked tragic backstory mode - we may as well be soulmates.”

  
  


“You’re not going to leave, are you?”

  
  


Maria raises an eyebrow. Isabel sidesteps to let her into the hallway. She slides through the hallways on her socks like a little kid. 

  
  


“Into the lion’s den.” She grins a little madly and goes a little further into the house. “It’s like a Pier One Imports catalogue - I hate it.”

  
  


“I’m going to take that as a good sign.” Isabel walks past her into the kitchen, grabbing the whiskey bottle from her, uncorking it and settling on a stool next to the counter.

  
  


Maria sits down next to her, stifling a laugh. “Not going to put on any pants?”

  
  


Isabel rolls her eyes. “I’m not accepting judgement from you, DeLuca. It’d be too ironic.” she pours some out into a glass and takes a sip. “Why are you here?”

  
  


Maria blinks. “I thought you could use some company. And besides, I have ulterior motives.”

  
  


“I figured.” she sets her glass down and walks behind the kitchen counter, taking out a Tupperware container from her fridge and scraping its contents onto a plate, before setting it in the microwave. “What are they, manic pixie dream girl?”

  
  


She sighs, and stares at her full glass. “I wanted to ask how Michael is.”

  
  


Isabel laughs. It almost sounds bitter. Maria doesn’t flinch. 

  
  


“I just don’t know what to do.” she says, so quietly it’s almost like she’s talking to herself. “And I miss Alex. And I need alcohol. Lots of alcohol. And I miss him, and Alex, and I didn’t - I didn’t  _ want  _ him in the first place. Because I knew it wasn’t right. And it was kind of fun, and I just … I hate the things I do sometimes.”

  
  


It doesn’t look like she’s expecting a response. Isabel doesn’t give her one. She takes chili out of the microwave and pours it into a bowl. She’s pretty sure you’re supposed to warm it up on the stove, but whatever. “Well, he’s obviously not okay, considering that Max just  _ died.  _ But he’s not pissed at you. Which is all you care about, right?”

  
  


“No.” Maria looks up. “Look, I just figured out that my mom was right this  _ whole  _ time. You guys are  _ aliens.  _ I treated her like she was crazy for ten years, and turns out she was right. For the last decade, I walked from healer to healer, let half the state of New Mexico address me by  _ that crazy bitch,  _ and have gotten arrested twice all for my mom. And Max … he could’ve been my chance.”

  
  


“Has she been diagnosed yet?” Isabel leans across the counter and pours herself some more whiskey. The stars really didn’t cross - they  _ collided  _ \- to present her with a situation where she has to be nice to Maria DeLuca. Or  _ wants  _ to.

  
  


Maria nods. “Yeah. A couple days ago.”

  
  


“You should know,” she finishes her whiskey glass. “Max brought Rosa back.”

  
  


Maria drops her glass on the counter. “Rosa’s  _ back?” _

  
  


“You didn’t hear that from me. She got hot while she was gone, though. Magical healing pods do that to you. Like a ten-year-long spa treatment.” She takes a spoon of chili. It’s Noah’s. And it’s good. And she’s hungry.

  
  


“You  _ saw  _ her?”

  
  


“No, I mean,” Isabel sets her spoon down and rolls her eyes. “She does think I murdered her with my magical hands, so it might be a better idea to stay away for now.”

  
  


Maria’s hair falls in front of her face. She breathes out, eyes wide. “That’s … that’s a lot. Wow. I, uh - I have to go.” 

  
  


“Okay, um-“ 

  
  


Maria grabs her coat, and zips it up, hurrying down the hallway to slip her shoes on her feet. Isabel doesn’t follow her - instead, she listens as she slips outside, and the front door crashes closed, leaving her alone again.

  
  
  


[\\]

  
  
  


It’s probably a week or two before she sees civilization again. She didn’t actually know she could stay in her house this long, but it’s a miracle how long you can survive on your dead husband’s chili and beer and that kind of lemonade you buy in packets. She’s starting to hate it. Noah had gotten this cake for their anniversary almost months ago, and it’s been forgotten for a while now, so she serves herself a slice of that and sits on the couch and watches  _ The Bachelorette  _ and  _ The Great British Baking Show _ and all the old rom-coms her and Noah used to watch together. Sometimes, she’s making fun of one of the characters, and turns around and finds she’s alone on the couch with a tub of ice cream and a photo album she can’t even bear to open.

  
  


Then Michael slips inside and closes the front door without  _ saying  _ anything, so she just closes her eyes, pulls the blanket over her head and just thinks,  _ this is it, this is the end.  _ She doesn’t move.

  
  


“Wow, and to think you were the giver of get-your-life-together lectures after high school. How the mighty have fallen.”

  
  


She sits up and groans. “Shut up. I was counting on me being dead by now.”

  
  


“Well, I’m running kind of short on siblings at the moment, so…” he sits down next to her, and changes the channel.

  
  


“That’s not funny.”

  
  


“I know.”

  
  


It’s a few minutes of staring at the flamingos on Discovery Channel, before Michael laughs to himself. “You know, we always thought that you’d be the ultimate sorority girl. Like, painting nails and pregnancy test pranks and boy, or girl advice. Like we’d have to haul you back and you’d be decked out in pink with like a best friend tattoo and every other sentence would be  _ disarming the patriarchy.” _

  
  


“What’s wrong with disarming the patriarchy? You  _ are  _ the patriarchy.” She knows the  _ we  _ is him and Max. “Besides, college wasn’t … it wasn’t what I was expecting. I don’t know. I’m looking back, and I’m thinking, none of us really could do what we wanted to do, really? I wanted to be a journalist, and you were going to be this, this scientist, or mathematician, and Max was going to be a New York bestselling author, and it’d be so - we wouldn’t be normal. And stuck in this town.”

  
  


“I don’t think we’re normal, exactly.”

  
  


She laughs, a little. “I meant we could’ve been  _ someone.  _ Known for other things than our magical hands. I know what you’re thinking, shut up, Michael. I  _ meant  _ us being aliens. In case you forgot.”

  
  


He buries his grin in his hands. “I miss him.”

  
  


“Me too.”

  
  


The front door opens with a start, and Michael gets to his feet right away, eyebrows furrowed. “Were you expecting anyone?”

  
  


_ Oh, shit. _

  
  


Maria kicks off her shoes, and her voice comes floating down the hallway. “So, turns out the bottle of wine I generously gifted you was pretty damn expensive, and I know you’re too prideful for day drinking, so bring it and the glasses out, because I have had a  _ day- _ “ she stops at the entrance of the living room. “Michael.”

  
  


“DeLuca.” he sinks back down on the couch, his smile slipping away and stretching thin.

  
  


Maria shrugs off her coat onto the couch and heads into the kitchen without a word. Michael turns his wide eyes on Isabel, mouthing  _ why is she here?  _ Isabel shrugs and turns The Bachelorette back on. 

  
  


She comes back with a glass of wine and sinks into the couch. Colton’s trying to persuade Cassie to be with him, which would usually be where Michael would poke fun at the two of them, but instead, there’s just a heavy silence. 

  
  


Isabel shatters it. “Okay, so I’m confused. I thought you guys were dating.”

  
  


Maria laughs quietly into her glass of wine. Michael glares at her. 

  
  


“I mean, I haven’t really left the trailer in three days, and also … I’m an alien.” Michael manages a weak smile. “Surprise.”

  
  


Maria laughs again. “Oh, I  _ know.  _ Magical hands, right?”

  
  


“You would know.”

  
  


Isabel rolls her eyes. “Gross. Get out.”

  
  


“I’m going,” he says, raising his hands, smile stretching steadily across his face. He turns to Maria. “You coming?”

  
  


She tilts her head and grins. “I think I’m going to stay here for a while.”

  
  
  


*

  
  
  


She’s on the couch, wrapped in a blanket, watching trashy television shows with Maria DeLuca, and her traitor of a brain, instead of saying something like,  _ this is so fucking weird,  _ is thinking  _ this is kind of nice.  _ And it is. Except she doesn’t like that she likes it. She likes that she doesn’t want to like that she likes it. And that doesn’t … make any sense. And she doesn’t have anyone to talk about it with.

  
  


They’ve fallen into a comfortable silence, Rachel McAdams is fighting with her parents while Ryan Gosling listens - yes,  _ The Notebook,  _ she’s quite comfortable in her movie choices as a twenty-five year old woman with a murderous husband with a bad taste in movies. She wonders how long she’ll keep blaming things on Noah. 

  
  


“You have a very High School Isabel Evans taste in movies,” Maria comments, refilling her glass of wine. “Next it’ll be  _ Mean Girls,  _ then  _ A Simple Favor,  _ or  _ Pitch Perfect?” _

  
  


“Please.  _ Pitch Perfect  _ is quality entertainment. I’d take any excuse to stare at Anna Kendrick for two hours.”

  
  


There’s a short pause, before Maria sits up. “You loved her, didn’t you?”

  
  


Isabel furrows her eyebrows. “Anna Kendrick? Who doesn’t?”

  
  


“Rosa.”

  
  


“I mean… I don’t  _ know.” _ she shrugs. “Maybe? It could’ve just been Noah, but sometimes I think it was me. Not anymore, though. She’s more like a dream, now. You wake up, and you’re not sure if it’s real or fake.”

  
  


“You know, I always thought you and Rosa would hate each other.” If she squints, she can see the faint silhouette that Maria casts on the wall. It’s too dark to make out her face (even if she  _ wanted  _ to make out with her face, which she doesn’t. Obviously. That’s not even what she was saying.). Isabel snorts. 

  
  


“You were … you’re both alike, actually. I didn’t see it before. She had that whole tattoos-take-no-prisoners thing going on, and you were intimidating, too, but in a different way. Rosa messed with your head, you’d mess with lives.” 

  
  


Isabel laughs, a little harder than she should. “Did you go see her? Does she still think I murdered her?”

  
  


“That’s actually why I came here.” Maria sits up straighter, pulling the blankets around her shoulders. “Do you want to come with?”

  
  
  



End file.
